


High in the Instep

by p1013



Series: Kinkuary 2021 [23]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Auror Trainee Draco Malfoy, Auror Trainee Harry Potter, Foot Fetish, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but only if you squint at it, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29709042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: If he can't fuck Potter, Draco will at least be better than him.That's how it's always been.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinkuary 2021 [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140512
Comments: 16
Kudos: 223
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





	High in the Instep

**Author's Note:**

> Day 25 - Feet

On their first day of Auror training, Potter is wearing a pair of worn, ratty trainers. They were white at one point in time, but now they're a dingy shade of grey-brown. The soles are a bit loose from the upper, and the collar barely stays up. Draco imagines that Potter's slide his feet in and out of these shoes a hundred, a thousand times before, not even bothering to undo the laces.

It doesn't matter that the shoes are falling apart, though, because Potter is as well made as ever. He's strong, quick, agile. Draco can't tear his eyes off of the man as he goes through training drill after training drill. His dueling is a thing of beauty, to be sure, but his hand-to-hand combat is better, and his time through the obstacle course is the fastest the Auror Corps ever recorded. When he finishes, jumping from the final obstacle with a heavy exhalation and sweat turning his vest transparent, he looks directly at Draco and grins.

"Beat that, Malfoy!" His words are faint, but it doesn't matter. Draco's forced to respond to them anyway.

And though his time is only milliseconds behind Potter's, it's enough to drive Draco's competitive nature mad.

If he can't fuck Potter, Draco will at least be better than him.

That's how it's always been.

* * *

His trainee robes flap around his legs as he runs. Draco's supervising Auror is somewhere behind him. Their suspect had hit her with a Stinging Hex two blocks ago, knocking her to the ground with a grunt and a shout of "Malfoy! Don't lose him!"

His shoes, a well-worn pair of work boots that grip the ground with surety, slide for a second against the gravel-strewn pavement before they gain traction again and he's through the turn. The suspect stumbles ahead of him, and Draco nearly crows in satisfaction. He can tell he's going to catch the man, knows he's going to finally get a good mark on his damned file.

This is his moment.

" _ Stupefy _ !"

Draco's wand is still in its holster on his thigh, and for a moment, he thinks the suspect might have cast it. But then Potter bursts from a sidestreet, wand outstretched, the spell still curving his lips, and the suspect hits the ground.

Potter looks over his shoulder and shouts, "I got him!" He doesn't see Draco until Draco nearly topples into him. "Fuck!"

His broad hands wrap around Draco's biceps and catch him before he can fall. Still panting from his sprint, Draco doesn't pull away as quickly as he should and gets a deep lungful of Potter's scent. It's intoxicating, and Draco heaves himself away. "The hell do you think you're doing, Potter?"

"Catching a criminal." Potter hurries over to the suspect and quickly binds him with an  _ Incarcerous _ . "Where's your supervising Auror?"

"Do you think I did something to her?"

"No," Potter says unconvincingly. "I'm just wondering what happened."

"It's fine, Potter!" Auror Phillips's voice rings through the street. "Trainee Malfoy went ahead on my orders. Good catch, gentlemen."

Draco tries to feel some of the scattershot praise, but all he can focus on is Potter's cavalier grin and the way his feet stride across the pavement like he owns it.

* * *

For graduation, Draco wears black Oxfords polished to a high-sheen. The night before, he spent more time than he'd like to admit with the bootblack and a rag. Magic doesn't give him the same result, something about the shine not as bright or as clear as when he does it by hand. There's also a kind of peace that he finds in the act, the simple repetition and the joy found in a job well done.

Now, as he waits for his turn to cross the stage and get his Auror badge pinned to his dress uniform, he stares at his own reflection in his shoes and wonders what in the hell he's gotten himself into.

* * *

Six months into being a full Auror, Draco is assigned a new partner.

He should've seen it coming, but like most things that hindsight will make obvious, it catches him off-guard.

"Potter," he repeats, staring at Robards as if looking hard enough will make him take the words back. "You want me working with Potter."

"More specifically, I want Potter working with you." Robards flips a page in the file he's got open on his desk. "You don't believe it, I know, but you're one of the best Aurors in your graduating class. Your solve rate is higher than anyone else's. Your paperwork is impeccable. Even though they don't want to most of the time, your colleagues respect and like you. Hell, if it weren't for your name, people would already be considering you for Head Auror. And before you even think to glare at me, I expect it'll happen anyway, just a bit slower."

"Thank you, sir."

Robards laughs and closes his file. "Say what you want to say, Malfoy. You have my permission to speak freely."

"Why Potter? Why not Weasley or Finnegan?"

"You want me to partner you with Weasley or Finnegan?"

"No." Draco sighs in frustration. "But I don't understand why you think it'll be a good idea."

"Potter has a great instinct for hunting down criminals, but he's shit at the rest of it. His peers respect him, but not because of anything he's done on the job. And while he can do good work, he needs someone to temper his nature."

"And that's what you want me to do. Temper him."

Robards leans back in his chair and smiles. "Exactly."

* * *

New trainers this time, their leather uppers unstained and untarnished. They squeak against the mat as Draco takes up a fighting stance, his fists raised.

"C'mon, Potter," he says with a sniff, "show me what you've got."

They've done this for years now, and Potter's just as good as when they started, maybe better. He knows what Draco's thinking, almost before Draco does, and as Draco shifts his weight forward, Potter's already moving to the right and ducking under Draco's fist.

Another right cross, followed by a left jab and an uppercut. None of them connect, but it's a near thing. Draco can feel Potter's laughing exhalation against his fist as it whips past Potter's face.

"You're getting faster," he says later, when they're getting dressed in their civilian clothes in the locker room. Potter's got his foot up on one of the benches, his laces held carefully between his fingers as he ties his shoes. "Those training sessions with Ron helping?"

Draco nods, though his attention is more on Potter's hands and the curve of his calf than what he's said.

"That's good. It seems like you two might be… friends?"

That does grab Draco's attention. "Weasley? I guess you could call us that."

"What would you call it?"

Draco pauses, considers. "Frenemies, I think."

"What?" Potter's laugh is delighted. "Really?"

"It's an appropriate, if juvenile, term."

"Frenemies." Potter laughs again. "I'll be damned."

* * *

Potter's feet are bare when he walks out of the hotel bathroom, a towel around his waist and another around his shoulders. His hair is tousled and wet, and he runs his hand through it before flopping onto his bed.

"Bathroom's all yours," he says, eyes closed, his arm thrown over his head.

With Potter's eyes shut, Draco lets himself look at his leisure. He lingers on the circular scar in the center of Potter's chest, the firm muscles, the dusting of hair that thickens into a line above Potter's towel. Draco does his best to not wonder what's beneath that hotel terry cloth.

"Are you planning on sleeping like that?" he finally asks before turning away to get himself ready for the night.

"Might." Potter yawns. "It was a hell of a day, yeah?"

That morning, they'd executed a sting operation almost two years in the making. It had netted them fifteen arrests, over half a million Galleon's worth of illicit goods seized, and a mountain of paperwork waiting for them back in London.

"That's certainly one way to put it."

Draco toes off his shoes, too exhausted to untie them, and groans when he bends over to take his socks off as well. When he looks up, Potter's turned his head to the side, and he's watching.

"How are you going to celebrate?" Potter asks. The question feels heavier than it should.

Draco slides his robes from his shoulders and lays them across the foot of his bed, his back turned to Potter. "Probably at home with a good book and a glass of wildly expensive liquor."

"No one to celebrate with?"

"Not for me." Draco starts undoing the buttons on his shirt. "I am a confirmed bachelor."

"I don't have anyone to celebrate with, either. Not really."

Pausing, Draco turns. "What about Weasley? Or Granger?"

"Ron's gotten weird about Auror stuff since he left the force. Don't get me wrong, he was miserable, but I think it still stings that he quit."

"And Granger?"

"Oh, she'll probably start talking about some kind of legislation she's working on to free Dust Bunnies from bed skirt oppression." Potter smiles fondly. "Worst thing is she'll convince me it's a worth cause, and I'll be roped into attending a bunch of fundraisers and galas. All of which, I should mention, I will be attending by myself."

"By choice, I should think. The way the papers talk about it, you've half of Wizarding Britain throwing themselves at you."

Potter shifts his gaze to the ceiling. His expression transforms from playful to quiet, almost sad. "They don't know me."

"I know you." Draco swallows. "You should be happy with someone."

Potter doesn't respond, just shuts his eyes and breathes out a heavy sigh.

"I'm going to pop into the shower. Don't wait up, if you're ready to turn in."

Draco needs the space. The hotel room suddenly feels too small, too crowded. By the time he's done washing, the water's running cool and tepid over his shoulders, and he isn't entirely sure if he wants to get out or stay there until he freezes. There's a fire in his blood that he can't put out, not when Potter's so close and unattainable, but maybe if he drowns himself a little, it'll help.

He dries himself off in the bathroom, then curses quietly when he realizes he left his pyjamas in the main room. When he opens the door, the lights are off. He walks carefully to his side of the room, passing the foot of Potter's bed and the dark lump of his body beneath the sheets. As his eyes adjust, he finds his bed clothes and briefly considers going back to the bathroom to change.

But Potter's asleep, and it's dark enough that he wouldn't be able to see, so Draco lets his towel fall to the ground and grabs his bottoms.

"You know," Potter murmurs quietly, "I always thought you were fit."

Draco, his back to Potter, freezes. "I thought you were asleep."

"No, just thinking." There's a rustling behind him, then the sound of bare feet on carpet. "Are you sure you want to celebrate alone?"

Draco shouldn't turn around. He should put his bottoms on and crawl into bed with his lust and his shame, and he should pretend that this never happened.

Draco's rarely done what he should when it comes to Potter.

Turning, he lets his bottoms fall to the floor and, naked, he faces Potter.

The other man is only wearing a pair of boxers, and as Draco's eyes coast over Potter's body, they start to rise. Draco's cock thickens in response.

"You think I'm fit?"

"Very." Potter takes a step closer. Though his voice is firm, his touch on Draco's side is soft. "If you don't want this, tell me to stop."

Draco just kisses him instead.

They somehow make their way to a bed (Draco isn't sure which one). Potter fits perfectly between Draco's thighs, and their cocks slot together like they were made for it. He'd groan if his mouth weren't so busy with Potter's. It's brutal. It's frantic.

It's perfect.

There are too many places on Potter's body that Draco wants his hands. Caressing, dragging, touching, he lets them roam wherever he can reach until he's got both of Potter's arse cheeks in his hands. He presses Potter's hips against his own, makes the man grind against him just right, and Draco gasps at how good it feels.

"Do you… I don't." Potter growls, then nips at Draco's neck. "God, I want you."

Back arching, Draco wraps his legs around Potter's waist and urges him on.

"Do you want to fuck me?" he asks against Potter's mouth. When the man curses, Draco drinks it down like sweet nectar. "Open me up."

Potter knows what he's doing with his hands, Draco will give him that. Wandlessly, Potter casts a lubrication spell, and then he corkscrews one of his fingers into Draco's arse. It's too good and not enough at the same time, and as Draco keens, Potter gives him another finger.

When he adds a third, the stretch is almost too much to endure. Draco writhes against it, his cock leaking on his stomach. Potter twists his wrist just so, and Draco's entire body lights up.

"Ah, fuck, right there."

"Yeah." Potter chuckles, then does it again. "I know."

"If you could not be a cocky bastard right now, that'd be great."

Potter thrusts against Draco's hip meaningfully. "I think you appreciate my cocky nature."

"Shut up and fuck me."

And Potter does.

It's like being split apart and put back together again. Potter's prick is big, and though he prepped Draco thoroughly, it's still a lot. He bears down, though, and lets himself fall into the pleasure of Potter's body deep within his own.

"You're so tight." Potter mouths at Draco's neck, his hips stuttering.

Draco lifts his hips in one fluid motion. It forces Potter into him all the way, and with Potter's hips against Draco's arse, he grinds into it, sighing when Potter's prick presses against his prostate.

After that, things get blurry. Draco's hair is still wet from the shower, but now there's sweat tangled in the strands as well. Potter keeps kissing his neck, biting at the cords of it before lingering with his mouth and tongue to soothe the ache. It's almost enough, but Draco needs more. He may never have this again, and he wants to feel it for weeks if it's the only time he will.

Throwing his legs over Potter's shoulders, he bends himself in half and watches as Potter sits up, grabs Draco's thighs, and fucks into him like it's his fucking job. Like his only goal in life is to destroy Draco for all other men, to ruin him as thoroughly and efficiently as possible.

When Potter turns his head to the side to kiss the inside of Draco's knee, Draco has to slam his eyes shut or risk coming. There's something so gentle about the motion that it breaks Draco's heart. 

He pulls his leg back, but Potter doesn't stop. Instead, Potter kisses his way down Draco's shin bone, down his calf, around the bone protrusion of his ankle. His lips are rough against Draco's insole, his tongue a clever suction around Draco's big toe. Potter makes love to Draco's foot as thoroughly as he makes love to Draco's arse. As he nips at the ball of Draco's foot, his green eyes locked with Draco's grey, Draco can't stop his orgasm from shuddering through him in a wave of heat and desperation.

It only takes Potter a few more thrusts before he's coming, too. He pants against Draco's foot, against his knee, against his neck. Not a lean man by anyone's standards, Potter's weight pins Draco to the mattress.

"Give me a minute," he mumbles into the comforter directly next to Draco's neck. "I'll get off of you, I just need a minute."

Draco doesn't want Potter to go. He wants to grow used to this, to the feel of Potter grounding him, his body pressed against every inch of Draco's. Even though his hips are a bit sore, and there's a good chance he'll be walking funny the next day, the last thing Draco wants is for Potter to leave.

He starts threading his fingers through Potter's hair without realizing. Slowly, steady pets as he works his way through the sweat-dampened curls. When he gently scratches Potter's scalp with his nails, Potter sighs contentedly.

"I think I love you," he says, voice already slurred with sleep. "Don't stop."

He doesn't, not until Potter's breath slows and grows smooth and even.

Not until a while after that.

* * *

He's wearing a pair of ugly house shoes when he answered the door. Potter, looking disheveled and appallingly attractive in spite of it, has a bouquet of flowers clenched in his hands.

"Don't you dare slam that door in my face," he says, palm up to stop it even as Draco's just barely started to close it. "Draco, don't you fucking dare."

"What do you want, Potter?"

"I want to talk to you." He takes a step forward, shoving his dirty trainer into the door jam so Draco can't close it. "Please, Draco. I promise, I just want to talk."

"Fine. Talk."

"Not out here." Harry pushes on the door, but Draco refuses to budge. "Okay, you know what? Fine. If this is how you want to do it, then this is how we'll do it. I have feelings for you, Draco Malfoy, and if you don't let me take you out to dinner, I swear to all that is holy, I will gut you, get you excellent medical care, and then take you out to dinner while you're too weak to refuse."

"Merlin, Potter, all you had to do was ask nicely." Draco takes a step back, still slightly disgusted by the mental picture he's trying to erase. Harry, sensing weakness, pushes his way inside, kicks the door shut, and kisses Draco like he's air and Harry's drowning.

Neither of them notice the ruined flowers left in the entryway, or the shoe print on the door.


End file.
